No need for words
by Mark Geoffrey Norrish
Summary: Harry reminisces after the war. DH-noncompliant. Silent.


AN: recommended listening is Linkin Park's Session.

Harry's eyes flicked open.

His room was swathed in the ambient grey light of pre-dawn from the open north-facing window, just bright enough for him to make out that the clock opposite him read quarter past four. He couldn't be too surprised; he'd been feeling uneasy about the day for half a week, and even Hermione couldn't entirely soothe him.

She was lying atop and twined about him in a tangle of limbs and hair, her face smooth and carefree in sleep. She breathed gently through a partly-open mouth, disturbing a strand of her wild hair; she sometimes snored when she lay on her back. He ran his thumb along her cheek, and the other hand down her flank, feeling the fine downy hair along her thigh; she didn't stir.

It was late summer and stiflingly hot, even in the early hour. They were both still sweaty; even with only a sheet over them, Hermione's body was uncomfortably warm, unlike in the winter, when they had been all too happy to share body heat. He gently prised her arms off him and climbed out of her legs and the bed. Her expression darkened and her arms tightened around herself, and she rolled forward onto her stomach, one arm squashed under her chest. Harry smiled, fetched his glasses from his bedside table and pulled on his jeans from yesterday. Hermione was neat to the point of fussiness about so many other things, but never worried about leaving clothes lying around. He gave her lonely figure a last look and tip-toed from the room.

They'd found a flat in Hogsmeade shortly after the Battle, when the Ministry revoked the bounties on their heads. The landlady was delighted to have Harry, if less so to learn that he was sharing with a girl. She had a daughter three years younger than him who had brought a welcome cake when they moved in and who had largely given up on him after a month, but she was the only one. Barkeepers still wouldn't let him buy drinks, and the _Daily Prophet_ hadn't slandered him once since Lucius Malfoy had been arrested the last time.

The bedroom was connected to a clean, cheaply carpeted hall with a few amateur landscape paintings, and one of a mermaid at a beach. She only spoke French; Hermione, who understood a little of it, found her vapid and annoying, but refused to translate. The mermaid was asleep, lying in a rock pool at low tide. Harry passed her without a sound.

The hall led on to the other rooms of the flat, and a pine wood staircase leading down. The first storey was rented to a taciturn Ravenclaw who'd graduated two years ahead of Harry and who had never said so much as hello. Harry went to the very end of the hall, past the stairs, and out onto the balcony.

Grey altostratus clouds covered the sky. Hints of light glimmered on the horizon to the east; so far from the cities, pinpricks of starlight were still visible in the heavens. Hermione's telescope was set up beside him. She often came out on warm nights to pore over craters on the moon; Harry liked to stay with her just for the soothing energy of her presence, and for her excitement once when she found Neil Armstrong's footsteps on the moon. He moved to the railing and leant heavily against it, staring sightlessly over the village.

It was his first anniversary with Hermione, but they both knew better than to expect to enjoy it, no matter that it was a public holiday and the rest of Magical Britain had already begun celebrating and would do so until well past midnight. A year ago today, they'd fought Voldemort to a bloody standstill, and Harry had come from the shadows to administer the final blow. He'd been a public darling since, but he'd never forgiven himself for the mistakes he'd made. He could list dozens of moments in the last few minutes, hours, days and months, when he'd hesitated or made a false move, and someone had died, and he'd spent endless hours wondering what if he'd worked just a little harder at DA or his studies. Hermione was always there for him, talking about survivor guilt or how she felt the same way or just being her, and she helped, but it would take time.

Around the village were endless rolling hills covered in sparse forest. In the distance, to the south-west, Harry's sharp eyes made out a ripple of motion. The ripple spread and became a wave, and a moment later the cool wind was playing with his hair. He exhaled and took a deep breath of the sweet air. Moments later, he dimly made out the shadows of owls gliding back from the night's hunt, heard them screaming at one another over their kills, and then he was lost again.

A year and twenty-four days ago, Hermione had had her last screaming match with Ron. Only four hours after that, the two of them had had to fall back from a skirmish with a mob of Snatchers; three people whose names they'd never learnt had been taken. Half of him wished she'd swallowed her pride and put up with Ron; with an extra wand, they might have carried the day, or at least held them off long enough to get everyone out. The other half of him was glad that he had her now, and he honestly wasn't sure which half was worse.

He shivered. The wind, so refreshing mere moments earlier, had turned bitter against his sweaty chest. A dead leaf blew into his collar. He didn't brush it away or turn to leave. He put up with such things as a sort of penance, a reminder that things weren't always as peaceful as they were now.

There was the soft grinding sound of the door opening. Harry didn't turn around and instead relied on touch to feel the difference in air pressure that foretold Hermione. She padded to him; still without looking back, he guided her hand around his chest, as her other plucked the leaf from his shirt and threw it away. She leant against him, her face buried in the knot of muscle behind and to the side of his neck. She had put on a cotton nightshirt, a white one that came down to her knees. He slid his hands down to her hips and accepted her weight and warmth.

It wasn't so bad. They'd had great times together, and with their other friends, and even the odd complete stranger, who were all overjoyed that Voldemort was gone. Ron hadn't held a grudge for more than a few days, and they had happily spent the last Christmas at the Burrow without incident. They'd had parties with the survivors of the DA and their other friends from school. It was only on and around the anniversary of the battle that he fell prey to reminiscence.

Hermione sighed into his neck; he leant his head back, and she nuzzled it. She applied the lightest of pressure around his chest, and he turned with it and took her properly in his arms. She leant forward and kissed him; she tasted of mint and rain. He broke to gaze into her eyes. Behind him, the clouds broke, and the pink light of dawn glimmered in her irises.

He smiled at her again. She returned it, took his hand, and led him back inside and back to bed. Time would heal all wounds.


End file.
